Dance with the Devil
by Spectral Scribe
Summary: They’re in a cheesy motel room when Sam finds out the demon’s true plans for him… and it will take more than sombreros or M&Ms to make everything okay again. AU after Bloodlust. Rated for language and dark themes.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own or lay claim to anything related to Supernatural.

_Summary: _They're in a cheesy motel room watching TV with bad reception when Sam finds out what John told Dean in the hospital, and the demon's true plans for him… and it will take more than sombreros or M&Ms to make everything okay again. AU after Bloodlust. Rated for language and dark themes.

**Dance with the Devil**

By Spectral Scribe

----------------------------

PART ONE

The motel room looked like a Mexican gay bar.

That is, they were both in agreement that if either ever stepped into a Mexican gay bar—which they surprisingly hadn't yet in their colorful lives—it would strongly resemble this motel room; the bedspreads were covered in neon rainbow stripes, the draperies were a sparkly fluorescent purple, and a decorative lamp stood off to the side with a shade in the shape of a frilly sombrero. It was no help that there actually was a mini bar in the room, painted with rainbow maracas and cheerful cacti.

It was disturbing, to say the least, and that was certainly saying something with all the motels they'd seen in the past (Disco-themed? Check. Porn-style-with-vibrating-mattresses? Check. Covered-in-yellow-smiley-face-paintings-and-peace-sign-beads-hanging-from-the-ceiling-with-live-fish-in-the-waterbeds? Check.). Then again, they'd both been pretty scarred by the porno motel… but that's another story for another time.

Yet Sam was certain that the troublingly festive atmosphere of the bizarre room was not the cause of his brother's disquiet. Sure, Dean hadn't been fond of the Mexicans since that burrito in Arizona made him sick for three days. But this wasn't the same. And Sam could feel it rolling off his brother in waves. This had nothing to do with Mexicans or gay bars… in fact, it appeared as if Dean hadn't even noticed the room as he dragged himself to the rainbow bed and flopped lifelessly on top. His eyes were distant.

"So," Sam tried as he swiveled his upper body in the chair, cracking his back. "What do you think?"

A beat of silence told him what he wanted to know: Dean had been too preoccupied in this thoughts to jump back into a conversation they'd left hanging ten minutes ago. When he couldn't follow his brother's train of thought, that usually meant tyranny of his own thoughts… which usually meant 'not good.'

"What do I think of what?" Dean asked tonelessly, shifting up on the bed so that he sat against the headboard with his arms crossed defiantly across his stomach. His eyes remained glued to the television across the room; it had a terrible, grainy picture, and Sam wasn't even sure what they were watching. But Dean's eyes remained fixed on bright colors, his profile to Sam.

"Banshee or Aswang?"

After a moment of silence, Sam wasn't sure if his brother even heard the question, and he opened his mouth to reiterate. But his brother's voice interrupted him.

"Where'd you get the idea it was an Aswang? Don't those usually stick to the Philippines, or did I miss a geography lesson?"

Relief mixed with exasperation. "We've seen plenty of evidence to suggest that creatures migrate. I mean, half the time we're going into things ass-backwards because of geographical disparity… for instance, that Wendigo wasn't where they usually turn up, so it's possible that an Aswang could have, at some point, moved north."

"Mmm-hmm."

"You don't seem very interested," Sam pointed out needlessly; Dean was proving the point in spades, his gaze fixed on the fuzzy TV and his arms still folded resolutely, as if his mere posture were a shield from Sam.

"Sorry. Your theory about Aswangs is fascinating," he deadpanned, drawling out the last word in dry sarcasm.

Try as he might to remain patient with Dean, his wits were strung in a taut tightrope, and frustration seeped through his weary bones. "You immediately ditch the idea of a banshee," he began in a tightly controlled voice.

"Banshees scream, Sam. No screaming here," Dean cut in monotonously.

Sam continued as if he hadn't heard him. "You toss out my theory about Aswangs. I don't know, man. I'm trying here, I really am, but I don't see how we're going to figure this one out unless you work with me."

More silence from the bed. His eyes were focused on the television, but his face was turned slightly in Sam's direction—an indication that he was, indeed, listening. Well, he supposed that was a good sign.

A thought erupted in his mind, and he suddenly wanted to see Dean's reaction to it. He was desperate for some kind of understanding as to what was going on in his brother's head. Before he could think better of it, the idea slipped through his loose lips. "I don't know. Maybe it's a demon?"

That sure as hell got Dean's attention. He finally ripped his eyes away from the TV, and Sam didn't know if it was just the juxtaposition with the colorful room, but his eyes looked dark and hollow. "It isn't a demon."

"How do you know?" Sam shot back, knowing that he sounded petulant, knowing that his brother was probably going to clock him one for that, knowing that it was a stupid question—but he asked it anyway.

"Because I know demons, Sam. This ain't no demon." There was something hard, _fierce_, in his tone like the sharp edge of broken glass that would have made any sensible person back off before getting cut.

Sam, however, wasn't sensible.

"You don't know that for sure. Demons are hard to pin… I mean, we didn't even know that _The_ demon was a demon until… well… until Dad told us."

Dean's eyes turned icy cold, and a vicious smirk curled up on his lips. He snorted—a scoffing sort of sound—and turned his head back to the TV.

Annoyance bubbling in him like burning acid, Sam spat out, "What?"

Dean shook his head once, that dark, incredulous smirk still on his face. "I know what you're doing. You're trying to con me into talking about Dad."

Anger snapped like a leather belt. "It's a shame I _have_ to con you into talking about our father."

"What is there to say?" Dean's voice rose now in irritation, finally breaking free from its stone-cold, impassive tone. "Dude, we've talked—"

"Yelled at each other, more like," Sam cut in.

"—so don't beat a dead horse. We can't put everything on hold just to sit around and whine about it. We've got shit to do, things to kill"

It was Sam's turn to give a derisive laugh. "Yeah, because you're just jumping right into this hunt. All you're _doing_ is sitting around." Before a tirade of ranting spewed forth from his unpredictable mouth, Sam snapped it shut and drew in a deep breath, exhaled a deep breath. "I know that's not the way you really feel, Dean. Now, if you don't want to work this job because you're afraid it'll be something that doesn't deserve killing… we've got deaths to prove it. It's evil. Just because we found one group of benign vampires doesn't mean we've got to second-guess everything we do, especially when we _know_ we're going after something that's been killing people."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I know that," he retorted sharply, and Sam withdrew for a moment, suddenly lost. He'd been sure that was the reason Dean was acting up about this hunt, losing his nerve. Maybe it was because of Dad, after all.

"Then what, Dean? I mean, you're acting like a jerk. And I get it… he was my father too. But doesn't that mean you can trust me with whatever's going on? We're going through the same thing, dude. In case you haven't noticed."

Dean's eyes sparkled, and Sam wasn't sure if it was with murderous fury or tears. He glanced over at his little brother, looking strained and pale. "Fuck you, Sammy," he whispered before standing up and striding over to the table where lay his leather jacket and car keys.

That threw Sam for a loop. It took him a moment to regain his bearings, still blown by the aching bitterness and sincerity in Dean's words. "What the hell, man?" he shot out, rising from his own seat to catch Dean before he grabbed his stuff and bolted. "You know, I've about had it up to here with your bipolar mood swings. What's your problem? You got a problem with me?"

At some point he had crossed the room and stood directly in front of Dean, using his three-inch advantage to get up in his brother's face and attempt to look intimidating. If trying to reason with him didn't work, then he'd have to try a more Dean-like approach. Maybe like would react better to like, and Dean would finally tell him what the hell was going on if he used more actions instead of words.

"Yeah, I got a problem with you," Dean muttered in a low voice that growled predatorily. "I got a problem with you, I got a problem with your bitching, I got a problem that demon, I got a problem with Dad—"

That was where he cut himself off sharply, looking determinedly away from Sam as if realizing he'd gone too far into undesirable territory.

"So I've noticed," Sam murmured quietly, trying desperately to understand his brother and feeling all the more cut off from him, isolated, as if there was a great barrier between them that was growing wider and more pronounced with each passing day of ignoring the issue. He already couldn't read anything in his eyes anymore, and he feared that eventually, Dean would be a complete stranger. "Come on, man. If you don't talk to me, I'm going to tie you down and play Justin Timberlake music until you break."

The attempted injection of humor dissolved quickly; Dean reacted about as much as if Sam had just pointed out the color of the wallpaper. Instead, he stared distantly into the corner of the room before turning back to Sam and reaching around him for his jacket.

Sam grabbed his wrist before he could seize the beaten leather. Okay, so maybe he should go first. "I feel like I don't know you anymore, Dean. And it scares the shit out of me." Not too bad. _You're turn._

But Dean merely glowered at him, his eyes shining with something deep and dark that Sam simply could not fathom, his arm still held out and patiently waiting for Sam to let go so he could grab his stuff and bolt out the door.

"So that's it? You're just going to stand around, pretend it's not killing you that Dad's gone, pretend everything's okay?" He let go of Dean's wrist. Dean didn't move; he remained statue-like, his eyes glittering with malice, his features eerily still. Sam felt his anger start to get away with him again, his nerves crackling with adrenaline and his stomach fiery and hot with annoyance, and it grew and grew as his voice raised both in pitch and volume. "You're just going to keep brushing me off, forget about Dad, forget about everything… turn into _Gordon?_"

That did it. Something in Dean splintered, and when he spoke, it was low and fast and bitingly vicious. "Hey, Sam, why don't you whine some more, maybe it'll bring Dad back from the dead—"

Dean's head snapped forcefully to the side. It was a moment before Sam realized that his fists were raised and the knuckles on his right hand felt the dull ache of bruising. Dean straightened up, his eyes wide and disbelieving as he stared up at Sam (_why are you saying this to me?_). "That was my rain check," Sam muttered, his energy waning after the spike and leaving bone-weary exhaustion in its wake.

Dean's left cheek had a red mark on it that Sam felt only slightly bad about. The bastard deserved it… he was acting like a complete jackass, and he wouldn't give an explanation. Didn't he realize that Sam was going through the same thing? That they could commiserate, rather than turn against one another?

His resolve started to crumble when he saw that Dean was still staring at him, stock-still, eyes wide like a kicked puppy, jaw clenched. But then Dean made a reach for the keys, and Sam snatched them up and stuffed them into his pants pocket.

"Sam, give me the keys."

He tried to pretend he hadn't heard the tremble in Dean's strained voice.

"Give me the keys right now, or I swear to God I'll—"

"You'll _what?_" Sam spat out, his anger running on fumes now. "Actually tell me what you think? Tell me something that's true?"

Dean turned away in a huff, switched off the droning TV, took a few steps to the other end of the room, breathed in a few times, turned around, leaned his back against the wall. Gazed at Sam with a profoundly troubling look in his eyes. Scrubbed a shaky palm over his face.

"Dad knew."

The words were whispered with a quiet, unbearable defeat.

It took Sam a few minutes to open his mouth and ask, "Knew what?"

"About you. About… about the others… and the plans…"

"The demon's plans for me?" Sam cut in, a sharp jolt of heat coursing through his body like an electric shock. "He _knew_ what the demon wanted with me? How? Why didn't he say anything? How do you know—"

He knew he was rambling, and Dean cut him short, his voice marred with an all-encompassing frustration and weariness. "He told me not to tell you."

"Wha—" Sam gave a short, disbelieving laugh. "He didn't… he didn't want me to know? And just when did he tell you this?"

Dean's jaw was clenched, as though he were trying to keep himself from spilling the beans. "Before…"

"I thought you said he didn't say anything to you?" He was somewhat ashamed at the note of pained betrayal that rang through his speech, an accusation that he knew cut his brother as much as it did him.

"I lied, okay?" Dean snapped viciously.

The room echoed with silence for a beat before Sam could muster up the willpower to voice his next question. "What… what did he tell you?"

When Dean looked up, it was with dark, hollow eyes, and suddenly Sam didn't want to know, really, _really_ didn't want to know, wanted to run away and not look back, wanted to stop seeing those shadowy eyes that didn't belong to his brother.

But he had to know the truth.

"Dean," he tried again, more earnestly—desperately—this time, enunciating every syllable. "What did he tell you?"

Sam could see his brother's hands clenched into fists, shaking slightly from the sheer force; his face had gone white, and his eyes darted around as if searching for someplace to go where he wouldn't have to face Sam.

"It…" There was a long, unsteady pause, but Dean could not hold back the words, and they bit out from his mouth, scalding and acidic and agonizing, "…turns 'em."

No, that certainly was not what flashed through Sam's mind at that moment. Most definitely, positively not.

And suddenly, it seemed as if Dean's mouth was on autopilot, and he couldn't stop what was coming out, and Sam half wanted to pluck it out of his ears and shove it back in his brother's mouth, forget it was ever said.

"It's a process. It gets rid of the mother first… then it baptizes the kid… in blood… then the kid starts to… _change_…" His voice was as hollow as his eyes.

No. No, he was still mistaken. He was hearing wrong. What he was thinking was not, _not_, what Dean was saying. Absolutely not. He did not need to hear more; there was a simple miscommunication… that was all. He was hearing wrong… he had to be… he was not… he was _not_…

Dean drew in a deep breath. Exhaled. "Then the kid turns. Into a demon."

The world spun out from under him, the Mexican themed room tilting on its axis and swirling, swirling in colors and rainbow maracas. Sam grabbed onto the table behind him, steadying himself, blinking until the world righted itself. His gut roiled ominously, and he felt suddenly as if he'd been sliced open, turned inside out, and sewed back together again. His insides were hanging out, his eyes turned inward to stare at his brain, his limbs numb and unresponsive.

No. He was not, he was _not_…

Images bombarded him. Fire dancing and flickering in his peripheral vision, Jess pinned to the ceiling, her face replaced by one he'd seen in old pictures, and blood staining her white nightgown, spreading like a crimson disease, fanning out, spreading, raining. Raining blood. Baptizing him in blood.

He had to get out, had to get _out_.

The walls were too close, pressing in around him, draining the room of air, suffocating and close, too close… he couldn't breathe…

His heart stuttered and raged against his ribcage, pulsating in his inside-out stuffing.

"Sam?" came Dean's hesitant, concerned voice from far away. How was he so far away when the room was so small, too small, the walls mere inches from one another? So small he couldn't move, couldn't breathe… but Dean was far away, too far…

He had to get away.

_I'm not. Not. NOT._

It was not true. It couldn't be.

"_My plans… for you. And all the children like you."_

Psychic powers. Demons had those. Changing, turning _evil_… Max. Mother replaced by demon. Water for fire. Death and death and death… and the children like him, _its_ children, Meg and that guy Dean shot…

No. He was not. He was _not_…

The room was too small. He had to get out. He had to fucking _breathe! _There was no air left, there wasn't any goddamn oxygen, and how the hell was Dean still breathing when there was no air in the room, nothing but the oppressive, clinging scent of betrayal and evil and death, death, death…

He still couldn't see Dean past the fire in his sight, and he blindly moved towards the door, forcing out, "I'm going for a walk" in such a calm voice that he almost startled himself and wondered who was talking in such a quiet, collected voice when everything inside of him was screaming and writhing in agony.

"Sam!"

He threw open the door, stepped out into the darkness. Sucked in a tremendous breath, _oh god, air, thank you._ Filled his lungs. Suppressed the urge to vomit.

Started running.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N:_ Thanks for the wonderful reviews. I just thought I'd mention something before everyone got ideas about this story that weren't true; there are only three parts. The point of this story wasn't to explore Sam turning into a demon, but rather to overload on angst, explore the characters of Sam and Dean, and to have some brotherly bonding. So, sorry to anyone who thought there'd actually be, you know, plot… because there kind of isn't. Here's part two.

**Dance with the Devil**

By Spectral Scribe

----------------------------

PART TWO

The slam of the door echoed, reverberated in the room as if it had the acoustics of a concert hall. Huh. Dean hadn't remembered motel rooms being that spacious before. But there it was, stretching out in front of him like a vast, empty wilderness, huge and expansive in its colorful emptiness.

Silence. Dean blinked slowly, tightly controlling his breathing in a steady rhythm. In, out. His eyes swept the room, the empty room, ghosting over the place where Sam had stood.

The room was too bright, too colorful; if the outside world could match the inner one, there would be no multicolored sheets, but rather dark and gloomy draperies to hide the sun, and black all over. And that damned mini bar would dejectedly cave in upon itself.

The rainbow maracas mocked him. Bastards.

In dreamlike slow motion, Dean slid to the floor, his back rubbing against the tauntingly bright wallpaper until he sat, knees up, against the wall. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Shock numbed his every bone, and it certainly wasn't shock over Sam's reaction. How else would one be expected to respond? Oh, by the way, you're going to turn into a demon, but don't flip out on me now, all right? Cool. Sure. No problem.

No, it was not Sam that shocked him. In fact, Sam's freak-out had been so well predicted that Dean wondered momentarily if _he_ could see the future, too. Then he snorted. Then he gave a laugh that was definitely, positively not a sob, thank you very much.

What shocked Dean was… himself.

"_You can't tell Sammy… he can't know about this."_

He'd been hiding it so well. Okay, so maybe that was the overstatement of the year. But Sam hadn't guessed, and he'd believed Dean when he said John hadn't told him anything. He believed him. And Dean had kept his promise. He had bottled it all tightly, corking the top, was careful not to spill the acerbic contents whenever Sam gave him one of those looks that just made him want to smash the bottle all to hell.

He couldn't believe he'd spilled.

Closing his eyes, he shook the thoughts from his mind. He needed to do something else, preferably something with his hands. He needed to move, not to sit and dwell on his too-loud thoughts that echoed horribly in the too-big room. What was there to be done? That was what he needed to assess.

Laundry wasn't too dirty. Nothing to research (because he knew Sammy was right; all signs pointed to Aswang. He had no doubt that was what they were up against). No extra cash to waste getting smashed at a bar. Transitively, no girls to screw.

But he did have dirty guns.

His dad had told him once, _"Keep your records clean, and your guns cleaner."_ It was sage advice, coming from someone who'd managed to keep off the cops' radar for twenty-two years, and who also happened to have the goddamn frickin' cleanest guns on the face of the earth. Dean remembered those guns being shinier than a kid's smile on Christmas morning. Pristine, all the time.

Dirty guns were no good. _"You let a gun get dirty, the dirt just spreads. Dirty guns are reminders of yesterday's failed hunt, and that reminder screws with today's hunt. Can't take a woman to bed with already soiled sheets."_ Dean particularly liked that last bit. His dad had been kind of a dark, demon-hunting fortune cookie when it came to teaching Dean the basics of their life. Before he was thirteen, Dean had already taken to memorizing Dad's bits of advice like it was scripture.

Setting about his task, Dean stood and robotically crossed the room, pulling open the duffel bag of weapons. It wasn't as immaculate as his dad's truck trunk. In fact, there were flecks of dried blood flaking off the inside from when they'd tossed in bloody weapons, not bothering to polish them off.

It was a bad habit. Couldn't very well start clean on a new hunt with dirty weapons, still sullied with the remnants of the last hunt, the last kill, the last death, death, death… it was a bad omen, he'd always heard from Bobby, starting a new hunt with your mind still fixated upon the last one. It said only bad things about how you'd handle what was to come.

That's why Dean always tried to live in the present. Make your kill, record anything that needs to be remembered (like how to kill the son-of-a-bitch), and move on. Forget. Hell, if he didn't let go of all the details of past hunts, he'd probably be incapacitated by horror and grief by now. But he was quite an expert at taking all that information, all that emotion, and shoving it to the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, and turning off that corner to go into hunter-mode. It was the only way to protect yourself when you had that kind of lifestyle.

Sam didn't seem to see it that way, but well, that's why he wasn't as good a hunter as Dean and John were.

He spread out a tattered old cloth on the bedspread (the dark, dirty material clashed horribly with the bright festiveness of the rainbow cover). Then he carefully lay down each of his guns, one by one, until they were evenly spread out over the cloth. He picked up the Glock first, turning it over in his hands for a moment, evaluating the smudged surface from the last time he'd picked it up with grubby hands.

Yep, it was a good deal, living in the present. Find, kill, forget. Find, kill, forget. Repeat.

Better than remembering all the time, and drowning in the past until you couldn't get back to the surface and breathe. Better than being consumed by the ache, the misery of everything done wrong, the pain of guilt and regret. Best to let all those emotions wash away, because there was a hunt ahead, a monster to kill. And boy, sometimes he slipped up, but most of the time Dean was the best of the best at forgetting and moving on. Shoving it all to a back corner of his mind and turning that corner off.

He'd learned from the best: John, who'd always had the cleanest guns known to mankind.

"_Only thing better than a good, solid gun… is a good, solid, clean gun."_

He'd learned from the best.

First thing he did was pick up the brush, peer into the barrel. Never liked looking into the dark, endless barrel of a gun, but thoroughness was key. And Dean was nothing if not thorough. So he peered into the barrel, poked the brush down into it, and scrubbed away the residue of past hunts.

When he was done scrubbing down the inside, he put down the brush and picked up another cloth, spit onto it. Best way to shine shoes, best way to buff guns. He placed the saliva-covered cloth on the gun and started rubbing it down, polishing off the exterior until it gleamed, pressing hard enough to fully scrape away the dirt and smudges. When he was done, the gun glimmered lustrously.

It was quick and easy, cleaning guns. If you knew how to do it right. And Dean sure did; he'd learned from the best.

Setting the meticulously clean gun aside, he picked up another and set to work. Brush down the barrel. Polish the outside.

"_Listen carefully, because I'm only going to tell you this once."_

He stuck the brush in the barrel, ignoring the whispered voice echoing inside his head. He scrubbed more fiercely at this one than the Glock, purging it of the dirt that just didn't seem to go away.

"_The demon… it has plans for those children. And Sam."_

The barrel was as clean as it ever would be, so he dropped the brush and picked up the cloth, sucking in a breath before hawking a huge ball of spit onto the material. That would do fine.

"_It's a process. First it gets rid of any maternal influence… by fire. It replaces that with darkness so they grow up in the element of sin."_

It was a really great thing, living in the present. Not having to worry at all. Because, that was the thing; people didn't worry about the present. It just didn't happen. People worried about things that had happened in the past, and they fretted over things that would happen in the future, but it was really kind of impossible to worry about the present. That's what Dean thought, anyway. That was Sam's problem, too. He was always worrying about the past or fretting over the future. But really, all that mattered was the present.

"_Then it leaves the child for a while, until it starts to change. Develop powers. Lose a sense of morality."_

He'd learned from the best. The polished gun gleamed happily, and he set it aside with the Glock, picking up yet another to ferociously clean it, suck out all the dirt until it was gone. And he tried so hard to get rid of the dirt, but for some reason, it just seemed to cling to him wherever he went.

"_Eventually, the child loses its physical form, fully becomes something evil that can possess other people."_

Scrub, polish, done. Next gun. No time to think. Just do.

"_Sam… it wants to turn him into a demon. That's its plan."_

Scrub, scrub, SCRUB, and man, this dirt was hard to get out. This gun was really dirty. Dirtiest fucking gun ever, and he couldn't for the life of him get it clean, man, he had to get it clean.

"_You have to stop it. You can't let it happen. And you can't tell Sammy… he can't know about this."_

He couldn't, he just fucking COULDN'T get this gun clean, no matter how hard he tried… frustration welled within him as he scrubbed and scrubbed at the barrel, the dark, endless barrel. He had to, but he couldn't. Just couldn't.

"_I love you, son. Take care of yourself."_

Sucking in a breath, Dean chucked the gun across the room, watched it dent the feeble wall and clatter noisily to the floor. Then he released the breath, slowly, and felt a bit more calm.

There were two guns left, and he went to cleaning them both. The first one cleaned up nicely, having barely a splotch distorting the glossy surface. He picked up the last, going about the monotonous movements. He cleaned it mechanically, finishing up with easy swiftness.

When he was finished, there they all lay, a neat row of perfectly clean guns.

So why was there still a churning in his gut that wouldn't go away?

Clean guns were supposed to fix everything. That's what his dad had always taught him. You clean your gun, your hunt goes well, and everything is fine. Everything should have been better now, clearer now. But it wasn't. It was still dirty. The clean guns hadn't fixed anything. The future was still bleak and obscure, the past a mesh of terror and pain.

A wave of anger welled within him, and he knew why: it was because he'd learned from the worst. The absolute worst.

His father lived in the present because that was the only way he could survive being stuck in the past. He was always in the past, couldn't get _past_ the past. And there was no future for him.

He'd learned from the worst, and there was nothing he could do to change that, and now the worst was dead, and now he was left with the truth, and now there was no one to help, and now, and now, and now…

And now there was just too much in the present, too fucking much to deal with—he needed something else to do. Idle hands…

His trusty knife.

Yes, that would do. It was getting dull with age, worn and blunted. He needed things to be clear-cut, sharpened.

He unzipped the duffel bag and pulled out the lethal blade as well as the block he used to sharpen it. With slow, methodical movements, he tilted the edge against the block and smoothly ran the knife down, creating a satisfying metallic _zing!_

The disciplined, precise movements created a rhythm that had the soothing quality of a nursery rhyme. Dean calmed, angling the blade in the other direction as he continued to sharpen it, allowing the movements to lull him out of agitation.

"_And you can't tell Sammy… he can't know about this."_

His movements quickened fractionally, his arm pumping in time with the _zing!_ of the blade against the block. Over and over… he was a natural at this sort of thing. He'd learned from the best, who was actually the worst, and goddamn but he didn't want to admit that, he didn't want to think that the one person he'd always looked up to was nothing more than a fraud at life, and was now gone so it didn't matter anyway.

"_I love you, son. Take care of yourself."_

He didn't want this… couldn't handle this…

The knife was sharp, but he kept going anyway. The sharper the better. Then the blade could slice through basically anything, was sharp and deadly, would make the kill a clean and easy one.

"_You have to stop it."_

He wished he could. But now Sam was gone, was out of the room, had left him alone, and fuck if he could do _anything_ to fix it.

"_You have to stop it."_

His movements quickened to an almost manic speed, _zing! zing! zing!_ against the solid block, the airy note ringing in his ears, and he couldn't forget, couldn't forget…

"_You have to stop it."_

The knife was so sharp, and he really was lousy at shoving everything into the corner of his mind, because it always came back to bite him in the ass.

"_You have to stop it."_

A feral sound guttered in his throat as he chucked the block to the ground and leapt to his feet, unable to continue suppressing the anguish raging within him. He needed to hunt something, needed to kill, to break, to smash...

Panting heavily as he tried to gulp down surging emotion, he lifted the knife, shining and silver and sharp, and lunged towards that horrible sombrero lamp. In one swift movement, the knife swooshed down through the air and tore into the papery lampshade, slicing the rough material until it frayed, tore, and fell away from the lamp. Continuing its downward motion, the knife crashed into the light bulb, the sharp tip cracking the glass, shattering it—a flurry of shards exploded out through the air, showering down over him like clear, glittering rain. The metal knife slammed into the center of the light bulb, and for one horrifying moment Dean thought, _electrocution_, but no bolt of pain sang through the knife to his arm; instead, the light bulb merely flickered wildly like a fireworks display as the glass fragmented and fell around him, then dimmed and died.

Dean stood with the knife, next to the broken lamp.

The room went dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Dance with the Devil**

By Spectral Scribe

----------------------------

PART THREE

The night was still, quiet, and dark.

The first thing Sam checked for when he returned to the motel parking lot was the Impala; sure enough, the classic muscle car stuck out proudly next to a 2004 BMW and a snazzy green Toyota Camry. He wasn't sure what made him think Dean wouldn't be there when he got back.

He hadn't gotten far; he'd practically sprinted three whole blocks before slowing to a trot, and then to a sluggish trudge, and it wasn't until he reached an empty gas station that he wondered what the hell he was doing and turned back.

Striding up to the motel room, he took a breath—not sure he wanted to face anything, not sure he wanted to open the door, not sure about anything, really, anymore… but he turned the handle and pushed the door gently until it creaked open, squealing softly on its hinges. What Sam didn't expect to see when he stepped into the room was the dark, like the clear, navy night outside.

"Dean?" His voice was a hoarse whisper in the silence, and this wasn't right, because _he_ was the one that went on lonely walks; whenever Dean needed to get out, he took the car. It was a given. So, present Impala and missing Dean… that wasn't good, that wasn't good at all, he really didn't need to deal with this right now. Not ever.

Cautiously, as though waiting for something to pop out of the dark, Sam fully entered the room and crept blindly to the mini bar. They'd had the sombrero light on, but that was all the way across the room; there was another by the mini bar, which was much closer, and which he could probably get to without tripping over himself and his big-ass feet.

His outstretched hands brushed something cold, and, eureka, he found it. Grasping at the switch, he flicked on the light, spreading a dull glow about the brightly-decorated room.

Turning around, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees and his hands loosely holding his favorite hunting knife, which dangled precariously between his shins. His head was down, pointed so far towards the floor that Sam could barely see his forehead. Taking a tentative step closer, he saw the sombrero lamp, just behind him.

Glass was scattered haphazardly over the floor, the lamp tilted at an angle so that it caught the wall, halfway between standing upright and collapsing completely to the floor. The papery sombrero lampshade lay on the floor, a long gash down the middle.

"I leave for half an hour, and you demolish a lamp?" Sam choked out, managing to keep his voice even as his heart pounded in his chest. He cracked a pathetic smile. "I knew you weren't a fan of sombreros, but man… I'm going to have to get you a babysitter."

His humor was lame, and it fluttered limply to the floor like the deflated balloon that it was.

Dean didn't look up.

Sam licked his dry lips, tried again. "Sorry I ran out on you there," he mumbled, his voice low. _Sorry I left you alone in the motel room. Sorry I left you to be sacrificed to a Pagan god in Burkitsville. Sorry I left you to go to Stanford._ "I just… needed some air. You know." _I'm claustrophobic, and this room was just too damn small. You know._

"I know," Dean spoke at last, softly, to the carpet. He twirled the handle of the knife in his hands, rolling it in his palms so the blade whipped around in a neat 360 degrees, glinting in the dim light of the boring, non-Mexican lamplight.

"Yeah." Sam felt a prickle of nervous energy run through him, the kind he felt when trying to make small talk with a stranger who just didn't click. He didn't want to feel that way. Swallowing, he opened his mouth. "So…" He paused, not sure what to say. "I'm turning into a demon."

Dean remained silent, but he stopped twirling the knife.

Sam snorted. He'd been thinking about it for the last half hour, and now finally he spoke it, letting the tightness in his chest fly off into the air. "Man, that's fucked up. Even for our whacked-out lives." He snorted again, suddenly unable to contain himself. And before he could even take a breath, insane, hysteric laughter was bubbling within him, rising like an inflating balloon, manic, and he couldn't stop himself as it escaped his lips in a rush of air. Just like that, he was cracking up, the laughter of a mental patient, tears streaming down his face, because it was just the goddamn fucking _funniest_ thing he'd ever heard, now that he thought about it.

He could barely see through the tears, but Dean lifted his head and looked at him, a shocked expression marring his otherwise frighteningly stoic countenance.

But Sam just couldn't stop laughing. It was kind of starting to scare him, a little.

His stomach hurt, so he stumbled over to his bed and collapsed on top of it, giggling madly into his pillow, tears pouring onto the rainbow cover as he grasped the pillow, clutching it under him like a life preserver. He was cramping up from laughing, but god, he just couldn't stop, he couldn't stop.

A hesitant hand lay itself on Sam's shoulder, and suddenly it wasn't funny anymore.

It took a him a moment to suck in enough air to stop the hitch in his breath as the excess adrenaline whooshed out of him like a tidal wave—nice to see you, here's a psychotic burst of energy, now I'll be on my merry way. He was left feeling entirely drained and somewhat shaken. At long last, he had gathered up enough dregs of the vanishing energy to push back his fatigue, sit up, and turn around.

Dean was sitting on Sam's bed now, looking slightly wary of his younger brother, as though half-expecting him to burst into another bout of wild cackling. Sam took a breath and swallowed, settling back against the headboard, trying to show that he'd gotten himself under control and that Dean didn't need to worry. Well, didn't need to worry about his brother going crazy, at any rate.

It took Dean a minute, as he worked his jaw and kept opening his mouth as if preparing a speech, to finally say something. "I won't let anything happen to you," he got out at last.

"You can't promise that." Sam wiped at his face, the tears of his laughter drying on his cold skin.

Dean shook his head, stood up, and walked over to where he'd set his knife down on the mini bar. Lifting it up, he examined it for a moment. "No. You're right." As though finding the knife acceptable, he walked back over to his duffel bag, not looking at Sam, and bent to place the knife inside, but then straightened as though thinking better of it. "I can't make any of this better," he continued, going over to his bed and tucking the knife under the pillow. "I wish to god I could, but I can't."

Sam felt a sudden pang inside him as he watched his brother's movements, a deep ache that wouldn't go away, the same kind of ache his father had left in his wake. He gazed with tired eyes as Dean rounded up a pile of guns lying on his bed, gathered them in his arms, and carefully replaced them in the duffel bag. Each gun glistened like new, and Sam was reminded forcibly of John's clean gun rule.

"What else did he tell you?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Dean's back stiffened as he finished laying the guns in the duffel. Slowly, he stood up and turned around to face Sam, his eyes darting around the room while his face remained impassive.

"He told me…" Dean cleared his throat, which he only ever did when he was stalling for time coming up with a lie, or stalling for time when he didn't want to tell the truth. So Sam didn't really know what to expect when Dean's eyes finally locked onto him, piercing through him like that knife sliced through the stupid sombrero lamp. "He told me to tell you that he loves you."

The pang in his chest intensified, even though Sam knew it wasn't true, and he hastily pressed down the rising bubble of anguish before it could burst forth in the form of hysterical sobs.

Dean sat down on his bed, finding the remote and turning on the TV. The fuzzy picture crackled to life. As Dean settled back into a comfortable position, Sam followed suit, leaning against the pillow pressed between his back and the headboard of the bed.

"I could have helped you clean the guns, you know," Sam commented after a few minutes of blindly watching whatever the hell was on TV.

"It's okay," Dean replied. "Next time."

_Because there will be a next time._ Sam blinked sleepily, wrung out, wanting nothing more than to turn off his brain. _You're going to have to battle darkness in a whole new way. This is only the beginning. The demon will be back to claim what is his._

"I can't believe you killed a lamp," Sam mumbled.

Dean grunted. "It was an ugly lamp, anyway."

His mouth quirking up into a half-grin, Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the bag of M&Ms he'd gotten at the nearly deserted gas station. There was an ash tray on the mini bar; picking up a red one, he squinted one eye, aimed and lightly tossed the little candy across the room. The chocolate landed a good distance from the tray, bouncing onto the floor. He tried again, the blue M&M getting slightly closer but skidding on the mini bar and rolling to a halt.

"Shoddy aim," Dean muttered.

A brown one this time; Sam held it between his forefinger and thumb, lining up his shot, and flicked it. The M&M hit the side of the ash tray and careened in another direction.

Out of nowhere, Dean reached over and grabbed a handful of candy out of the bag. At first Sam thought he was going to eat them, but then he selected a green one and tossed it towards the ash tray, missing by several inches.

Sam shot again, missed. Dean grabbed a brown one and let it fly; the M&M soared in a graceful arc through the air before landing in the ash tray, bouncing around a bit before settling. Dean gave a satisfied smirk and popped one into his mouth.

Not ready to give up without a fight, Sam tossed another and another. After a handful of scattered M&Ms, he finally landed one in the ash tray. Dean grabbed some more from the bag, pelting them towards the ash tray with a deft flick of his wrist, only managing to get one more in out of the whole pile.

It was war. They threw them as fast an accurately as they could, and Sam lost count of the score as he chucked the M&Ms across the room, glancing over at Dean every so often to see how he was faring with his remaining ammo. It wasn't long before the bag was empty and the room covered with a distribution of colorful M&Ms that nicely matched the rainbow décor. They blended evenly with the happy cacti and rainbow maracas sprinkled over the mini bar.

Neither asked who won. Sam settled back against the headboard once more, letting the empty M&M bag float to the floor. "Who's gonna clean the room tomorrow?"

"You are," Dean answered automatically.

"Why me?"

"Because I cleaned the guns."

"You also demolished the lamp."

"_You_ started throwing the M&Ms."

There was an easy pause as the static-filled TV whispered muted dialogue into the quiet air. Sam sighed. "It was an ugly lamp anyway," he conceded. Then another thought came to him. "Next time we're near the border, I'm buying you a sombrero."

Dean chuckled, and Sam breathed. It was a start.

THE END


End file.
